


Apple of her Eye

by Corelda



Category: Dishonored (Video Games)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-11
Updated: 2017-04-01
Packaged: 2018-09-07 18:23:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,991
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8811400
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Corelda/pseuds/Corelda
Summary: "I don't want to go back to Morley, but I'm needed there. It'll be four months before we see each other again. I'll miss you." Wyman's return in Morley takes a turn for the worse when Delilah Copperspoon steals the throne from Empress Emily Kaldwin.





	1. Row, row, row the boat...

**Author's Note:**

> Fair warning, it is based upon my personal headcanon of Wyman, based itself upon the French translation of The Corroded Man. Meaning that yes, my Wyman is a man. I understand it may not be to others taste.

Wyman couldn’t deny it, he really liked boats. The low humming of the machinery reverberating through the hull was soothing and the open porthole by his desk let in the smells and sounds of the sea. As he perused through the pages of a morleyan law book, taking notes, he reflected that his only complain, really, could be that this boat wasn’t the ISS Jessamine – the ship would only be launched in two weeks in Dunwall. But the regret of missing the ceremony added to the regret of not being at Emily’s side for the next four never-ending months, and...

“Wyman!”

“I’m sorry, but he has requested not to be disturbed...”

The door of his cabin bursted open anyway, Síne barged in and Wyman rubbed his face with his free hand, before raising his head slightly to glare at the intruder and the contrite-looking guard behind her. _Here it is, the final nail in my coffin of regrets._ He loved his sister, but by the Void, ever since their departure from Dunwall four days ago she had grown increasingly restless and taken upon herself to make everyone as miserable as she.

“I told you not to leave anyone in, Lieutenant!” Wyman sighed and the guard blushed and glanced at the floor.

“My apologies, Your Royal Highness, but the princess seems to believe that you being siblings insures her some permanent right of access to your quarters.”

Turning a deaf ear to their discussion, Síne sat on the edge of Wyman’s bed with a very lady-like sigh, shook her ringlets and pointed an accusing finger at him.

“I can’t believe it! I just spoke with the captain of the ship! He told me we were still one week away from Wynnedown! One week! At the very least!”

Wyman dismissed the guard with a curt nod, remaining silent until the door was closed behind the man. Then he turned his head at his sister to throw her a reproving look. “It’ll depend of the currents and winds, but it sounds like a fair estimate to me, yes. How is that a problem?”

Síne narrowed her eyes at him, her lips pursued. “The problem is that I’m on that boat to begin with! Father asked for you to return home, not me!”

 _Ah. Of course._ “His Majesty did indeed ask for me alone, but Mother sent me another letter begging me to bring you along,” Wyman explained with a frown. His eyes went back to his notes, and after a moment he dipped the nib of his pen into the inkwell, determined to resume his work. “She wishes to have her two children at the Caisleán Bán together for the first time in a decade,” he went on. “I saw no reason to deny her request.”

The explanation visibly didn’t sit well with Síne. “It’s ridiculous,” she protested. “I only left Wynnedown for Dunwall last year and I write to both her and Father regularly, she can’t miss me so much already!”

 _Her two children_ , Wyman was tempted to remind her, but he stopped himself. He had been out of his sister’s life for fifteen years, nothing more than a faceless name whispered in the corridors of their ancestral home – Síne was only three when he left, and she had been raised pretty much as an only child. And maybe he was somewhat to blame, too: sweet Síne had been longing to be part of Dunwall’s high society for years and her brother had done his best to indulge her fantasies since her arrival, while sheltering her from the harsher realities of the Court. Her time in the capital so far had been a continuous succession of balls and galas, and this sudden trip back to Morley seemed as sudden as unfair.

Wyman couldn’t deny it was, though not for the same reasons. Once, returning to Morley was all he could have wished for, back when he was nothing but a child sent away to Gristol at the tender age of ten without having a say on the matter. Now, as a grown-up adult, he had made himself a good life in Dunwall: he was Morley’s representative at the Parliament, a member of the Empress’ cabinet, one of her most trusted advisors and, yes, the person she spent her nights with. And as Emily’s lover, the timing of the whole thing was horrendous, to say the least: the anniversary of the assassination of the late Jessamine Kaldwin was getting closer and Emily would need all the emotional support she could get on that sad day, yet it was the moment the King of Morley had chosen to summon his heir before him for the first time in fifteen years. _I will not throw the stone and claim he did it on purpose, but I cannot ignore his perfect timing either; had he actually decided to pester me, he wouldn’t have done it differently._

No mention the letter Wyman had received gave little reasons for this sudden convening, except for a terse sentence lost within a spate of platitudes: “Your presence is requested back in Morley.” If it were not for the personal seal of His Majesty affixed to the paper, Wyman would have taken it for a joke, or even a trap – a theory brought up by Corvo Attano when the young noble, in search for a sympathetic ear to complain to, had shown him the letter. After numerous rereads, he had finally given up on figuring an explanation; things would reveal themselves on time once they reached Wynnedown and the Caisleán Bán. But this would not happen before another week, as Síne had pointed out.

She was still pouting, fidgeting with the fabric of the blanket. Wyman took a deep breath. “I’m going to repeat myself, but it was Mother’s idea; regardless of your complaints, she’s the one you should bring them to, not me.”

“But it was so sudden,” his sister insisted, “and I was looking forwards to the parties following the Anniversary. I had contacted the same tailor who made my costume for the Boyle Masquerade months ago, and my new outfit was almost ready!”

A small shiver ran down Wyman’s spine at the mention of the Masquerade. It had taken weeks for Emily to confess she had drugged him on that night so she would be free to join the festivities at the Boyle Mansion, and a small part of him was still cross with her about the whole thing. But he shook the malaise – and the anger – off. “I’m sure your tailor is as devastated as you are, but Drapers Ward doesn’t lack fortunate customers. Your outfit will find a taker, no need to worry.”

“I don’t want anyone else but me to wear it!” Síne indignantly yelped. She got up and walked to Wyman, grabbed the arm that held the pen.

“Síne...!,” he warned her.

“I don’t want anyone else to wear it and I don’t want to go to Wynnedown! So the moment this boat calls in at Driscol, I’ll disembark and return to Dunwall! Even if I have to walk the whole way back!”

“Oh really?” Wyman raised a dubious eyebrow and for a moment played with the idea of doing nothing to prevent this from happening, if only to see if Síne would actually act upon her words or not. _Ah, the burdens of being the first-born, always forced to be the responsible one..._ “You intend to escape and you’re telling _me_ , of all people? You realize, of course, that the moment you’re missing, I will send a letter to Dunwall and Emily will put you on the next boat for Wynnedown as soon as you’ll reach the doors of the city, this time with a heavy guard escort?”

“She will not!” His sister countered, but she sounded much less confident than earlier. “And neither will you! Please, Wyman! Please!” She tightened her grip on his arm and the pen slipped, leaving a crude line across his notes.

Wyman looked down at the line, and then back at his sister, his jaw squared in anger. “You’re bothering me. Get out. Now.”

She gasped, let go of his arm and quickly turned away, her shoulders shaking. Wyman rolled his eyes and straightened his sit, before picking up the piece of paper. His lips tightened in a disapproving line. Days of work, ruined. Which made him even less receptive to Síne’s little playacting. “Stop pretending to cry,” he ordered; after a moment she sighed and faced him again, her eyes dry and resigned.

“You don’t let yourself being fooled easily, damn you. It usually works on everybody. I even got myself out of troubles by using this trick on Lord Corvo once.”

Wyman snorted. “I’m sure Lord Corvo did it on purpose – he has a soft spot for you. So does Jameson, and Alexi. Emily too, even though she’s still angry you took – sorry, _borrowed_ – her comb. They like you, all of them.”

“They would have agreed to let me stay with them in your absence, had you made the request,” Síne said softly. _She is persistent, I can grant her that. A true daughter of Morley._ She put her arms around his shoulders and pressed her chin again the top of his head, sighing.

“They would have,” he agreed as he put the piece of paper back on the desk. “But none of them deserve being stuck with a nuisance such as you,” he added in a softer, more affectionate tone, and he felt her smile.

“What, not even Ichabod Boyle?”

Wyman made a face. “Ichabod Boyle is a different case altogether. You don’t deserve being stuck with a nuisance such as him.”

His sister giggled. “I wonder if that’s true, what I’ve heard about the two of you. About you punching him during one of Lady Brisby’s parties and it got you kicked out.”

“I will not ask you who told you that,” he grumbled. But since the current mood was one of appeasement, Wyman decided to indulge her. “He had insulted Morley first, claiming that my relationship with Emily was nothing but a sophisticate ploy for us to get our independence from the Empire,” he explained, “and I simply defended my pride and my honour as a Morleyan. But it didn’t matter to Lady Brisby and she gave me the cold shoulder for the rest of the Season. In short, it wasn’t my most shining moment but I had mitigating circumstances.”

“And what did Emily say?”

“Well, she later called the whole thing the “least boring social evening Lady Brisby has ever held”, a comment that I decided I shall wear as a badge of honour.” Síne laughed again and Wyman had to fight the urge of puffing himself up. His thoughts went back to his Emily. He closed his eyes for an instant to better capture her portrait, the hazel eyes shining with intelligence and determination, the long black hair she only wore down when it was just the two of them, the lips so soft and red against his when they kissed. He hadn’t woke her up the morning of his departure, only leaving a letter that, hopefully, had made her laugh when she found it. _I’ll have to figure a way to bring her back some white leaf tobacco, though. Or some whiskey. The real good stuff, not that watered-down version they produce in the Distillery District._

“It is true; Lady Brisby’s social evenings are so dull! And lately, the only thing people are speaking about there is the Crown Killer!”

The name jolted Wyman from his reverie. “There is no _Crown Killer_!” he snapped and Síne moved back with a gasp. He felt the stab of a pang of guilt, and offered her an apologizing smile. “There is no Crown Killer,” he repeated in a gentler way, “it is only a name the Dunwall Courrier came up with to boost their sales.”

“But there is really a murderer on the loose who targets foes of the Kaldwin family, yes?” Síne asked hesitantly. “The-the name may be an invention, but the victims...”

“There is a maniac who kills people in a really gruesome way, and so far all of their victims have been opponents of Emily,” Wyman admitted reluctantly. “But neither she _nor_ Lord Corvo has anything to do with those murders. When the name of the first victim was revealed, Emily was dismayed, and Lord Corvo ordered an investigation into the affair. Jameson is confident they’ll catch that lunatic before the Month of High Cold.”

“But that leaves plenty of times for more assassinations,” Síne mused, and he found nothing to answer to that; he had made the same remark to Jameson Curnow himself. “Though”, she went on with a sly smile, “I think no one would shed a tear if the next victim happened to be Ichabod Boyle.”

 _No, that would be a disaster_ , Wyman reflected in silence. _The man himself is a ludicrous oaf, but he has friends who would be quick to turn him into a martyr. This is the last thing Emily needs at the moment._ “I should wash your mouth with soap for that,” he finally said out loud.

“Why? You dislike him, you told it yourself!”

“Because if every people I dislike happened to be killed, Dunwall would be a very empty city. And right now that would include you as well,” he added, and when Síne opened her mouth in protest, he pointed the crossed-out paper on his desk with a smirk. She turned a nice shade of scarlet. “So, now that we’re done with this conversation, would you mind to leave me to my work? I am forced to redo it from the beginning, and the sooner I’ll start the sooner I’ll finish – then we’ll be free to spend time together. It should make the rest of the travel less dreadfully boring for you.”

“Will you play the harp?” his sister asked with an expectant smile and he nodded.

“Of course I will. Now shoo!”

“As you wish, dear brother,” Síne said and she curtsied deeply before opening the door of his cabin and leaving. Wyman quickly surveyed his desk in search of something to throw at her before the door closed again but found nothing except for his pen and inkwell. It was really tempting...but he was still the first-born, the responsible one.

The door finally shut and Wyman let out a sigh, slumping slightly in his chair. The prospect of rewrite his notes already wore him out, but now there was also something else: Síne’s comment about the Crown Killer made him think. _Is this why His Majesty called me back to Morley? Is he afraid I’ll somehow fell to the maniac’s blade? Or does he actually believe that the killer is either Emily or her father, and he wants to put a distance between myself and the Kaldwins for fear of scandal?_

So many questions and the answers were still one week away. But as soon as Wyman would face the king, he would demand for them. In the meantime, though, there was work to do. So he took a blank page out of one of his desk’ drawers, picked up the pen, dipped the nib into the inkwell once more and began to write anew.


	2. Home, Bittersweet Home

It eventually took nine days for the boat to reach Wynnedown: a storm had broken during the stop at Driscol and the captain had made the decision not to cast off until the weather would grow milder, which didn’t happen until three days later. Wyman didn’t blame the man, for many ships had been sunk or stranded on the rough coasts of Morley – as a child on his way to Dunwall, he remembered seeing the remains of the Morgengaard’s whalers poking out of the water close to Arran, and the sight had filled him with both pride and dread. No one except natives dared to venture on the waters around the Isle when the sea was wild, and the captain spoke with the heavy accent of Serkonos.

The young noble had made the most of this impromptu delay by polishing his work, but Síne had been much less thrilled. At no moment had she tried to escape however, and the spotting of a pod of whales had eventually brightened her mood. She had requested her brother to compose an ode about whales right after that, and Wyman had been happy to do it; Síne had spent the remaining days humming it to herself.

Now, standing at the railing with Wynnedown so close that he could see the colourful facades of the buildings and people attend their daily business on the quays, with the Caisleán Bán set on its rocky spur overlooking the city, Wyman couldn’t shake the feeling that something was amiss. The crowed docks, the tall warehouses, the horns of ships in the harbour; those were the last, precious memories he had of his homeland, and he had spent so many hours describing them to Emily. But fifteen years later, the buildings appeared much smaller than he remembered them. Yet at the same time Wynnedown had obviously grown since his departure, the city now reaching places which, in his memories, were still hills and woods. Even the wind blowing in his redingote smelled different. Or rather it smelled exactly the same than in Dunwall, the stench of the harbour reminding him of the Wrenhaver River. The crisp smell of the salty water from his childhood was long gone, and the realization made him feel emptier than he had ever felt before: whatever he had expected – dreamed even, for so long – upon returning to Morley, this was nothing like it. _What’s the saying? “You can never go home again?”_

“Ah, here you are!” Síne walked to him. She had put on an elaborate mantle and gloves – Morley’s climate was colder and damper than Gristol’s, even during the Month of Earth. “I spoke to the captain; he expects the boat to moor in less than one hour. Hopefully we’ll be on schedule _this time_.”

“The poor man must be terrified of you by now,” Wyman jested. He had to pull himself together, now wasn’t the time to be overwhelmed by melancholy. “He made the engine run twice as hard to make up for the time we lost, almost burned it out, yet his last sight from you will be your scowling face.” His smile grew. “To think you didn’t want to come in the first place...”

“Well, I still don’t,” Síne protested, her cheeks turning pink, “but I decided to make the best out of the situation. No matter what I do now, the celebrations will be over by the time of my return to Dunwall. And I suppose...that I missed Mother, too. Letters don’t replace real people.”

“Awww, it’s adorable. My sweet, dutiful sister!” He had to fight the urge of ruffling her hair affectionately and making a mess of her ringlets.

“Don’t tease me! Besides, my sweet brother is expected to be just as dutiful!” Síne’s expression grew slightly worried. “You know Father will be displeased if you don’t wear our clan’s tartan upon our arrival.”

Wyman’s smile never faltered, but a pang of anger and resentment surged through him. “I couldn’t care less about displeasing His Majesty,” he countered, and the worry on his sister’s face turned into dismay. “However,” he went on with a more solemn voice,” I will wear the tartan to honour you, our mother, our ancestors and Morley.” He gazed toward the Caisleán Bán, the white of the bulwarks and squat towers contrasting sharply with the grey, cloudy sky above. _Will it be different from my memories? Smaller, like the rest?_ _I used to boast about how it was at least twice as big as Dunwall Tower._

“Please, Wyman, don’t be too hard with Father. I know things haven’t been easy for you, but neither were they for him. Please, promise me.”

“I promise.” The words left a bitter taste on his tongue, but they made Síne smile again and she hugged him tight. He hugged her back, closing his eyes for a moment. _In the end it’s just like in Dunwall – I’m sheltering her from the bad things in the world_.

“Do you think there will be a crowd waiting for us?” she asked as she let go of him, turning her head to look at the slowly approaching piers.

Wyman snorted. “I don’t know. I’ve seen people on the quays but better not to get your hopes up: most people in Morley have no idea what I look like and you are a nuisance only a mother or a wonderful brother could love, so I doubt we’re the ones they’re here for.”

Síne slapped him slightly on the arm with an indignant glare. “Rather than wagging his tongue, maybe my wonderful brother should hurry and get dressed.”

“I’ll let you know that Emily actually loves when I wag my tongue,” Wyman stated matter-of-factly. His reward was a deeply horrified expression on Síne’s face along with a blush as sudden as it was luminescent.

“Ew! Wyman, I didn’t need to know about...that! What kind of brother tells this sort of things to his sister!” she yelped, and he grinned from ear to ear. _So worth it._

“The wonderful kind, obviously?”

“Just...just go get dressed already!” Síne squealed. She buried her face into her gloves, refusing to look at him longer.

“Fine, fine, I’m on my way.” With a somewhat evil laugh, he headed toward the door that would lead him back inside the ship. Before opening it, though, he made a pause. “Síneag!” he called, and despite herself his sister looked up at him. “To honour our homeland, I will of course wear my plaid the true morleyan way!” The sign she made in response definitely wasn’t befitting of a young lady. They would need to have a serious talk about the company she kept, he reflected with another grin as he walked toward his cabin.

Most of his belongings had been packed already, but on the bed clothes were waiting for him: a plain white shirt and the traditional _breacan-an-feileadh_ _,_ along with hose, ghillie brogues, a brooch, a sporran and belts. Wyman picked up the tartan and gently stroke the fabric, the wool smooth and soft beneath his fingers. It was green and blue, like every outfit he wore at Court although they were made of much richer fabrics, and embroidered with black and red lines: the colours of the royal house of Morley. And as always, their sight torn him up inside, for his love for his motherland fiercely vied against his rancour toward its ruler...

_Please, promise me_ _._

With an annoyed grunt, Wyman put the tartan back on the bed and began to undress, tossing aside his redingote and gloves without much thought. He pulled off his boots and dropped them on the floor with no more concern. He was more careful with his neck cloth however, removing first a small harp brooch that he put aside before folding the fabric neatly; his waistcoat followed soon. It had been concealing a leather thong that he pulled off his head. A sheathed knife dangled from it, his _sgian achlais_ , its blade made of black glass as sharp as any morleyan steel. It was a gift from Mother, a marvel brought back from Pandyssia which she had sent him for his eighteenth birthday. He always wore it concealed under his arm, even within Dunwall Tower despite Lord Corvo’s disapproval – it was for tradition as much as for protecting himself.

The knife put aside, he also pulled his shirt off, baring himself from the waist up and leaving him in trousers and underthings, which he quickly dropped. Wyman grabbed the spare shirt and the plaid; the former he put on, before spreading the latter flat on the ground. He lied upon it, rolled the sides around his waist, secured the plaid with a belt, and slung the end over his shoulder before pinning it with the brooch. It was the size of his palm, a lover’s knot made of engraved gold, encrusted with whalebone and topped with an imperial topaz: “a piece of jewellery fitting for a future king and my royal consort,” Emily had teased while giving him the brooch as a farewell present, the night before his departure. When he had teased her back by asking if it meant they were officially betrothed, she had simply smiled her own impish smile and pushed him onto the bed.

In one of the many folds of the plaid Wyman concealed the _sgian achlais_ , just within reach, then he hung the sporran around his waist, put on the hose, then the shoes. Once he was done, he inspected himself and puffed with pride: the tartan was folded perfectly. A small part of his brain insisted it would cause such a delicious scandal if he showed up at the Caisleán Bán wearing it any old how, but Wyman pushed the thought away. He grabbed the harp brooch, put it away in his sporran, gave his former outfit a last look – domestics would take care of it – then he left his room to make his way back to the deck.

Wyman tensed up as he stepped outside and the cold air hit his thighs. _By the Outsiders’ frozen balls, how glad I am this is not the Month of High Cold yet!_ He sucked a breath in through his teeth then joined his sister back at the railing. She turned her head as he got closer, critically looked him up and down before nodding approvingly.

“Well well, aren’t you dashing!”

“I know,” Wyman teased, and he gave a theatrical bow. Síne laughed. “Dashing and cold, in truth,” he added. “The people who complain about the dreary climate in Dunwall have never set a foot in Morley.”

“It’s not as bad as Tyvia though,” Síne pointed out. Wyman scoffed.

“Tyvia is different. In Tyvia, everything tries to kill you, and that includes the weather. In Wei-Ghon, they don’t see the sun for six months straight. Believe it or not, but High Overseer Khulan is actually nostalgic of the place. Once, we had him for diner and he teared up while recalling his childhood.”

“Like you with Morley in short?” His sister’s smile was threatening to swallow her entire face.

“I never—“ Wyman bite his inner cheek. “Yes, like me with Morley,” he grudgingly admitted. “Or with the idealized vision ten-years-old me had of Morley.” He gestured at the buildings, so close now – the boat would dock in next to no time. “Were they always so...small?”

Síne giggled. “Silly Wyman, of course they were! Everything here has always been small, damp and cold. Why do you think I was so eager to join you in Dunwall?” Her eyes lit up and she clapped, grinning again. “Oh, I can’t wait for Father to throw in a party! All my friends will be here and they’ll be so jealous!”

“Let me guess, you’ll rub in their face the fact that you went to the Court and met with the Empress?”

“Of course! I am, after all, a socialite! And they’ll be so jealous of you too, rubbing your shoulders with the great and the good! They’ll never get over it!”

“Oh joy,” Wyman grumbled. “You know it’s not my thing, don’t you? I only go to parties because I have to.”

“Well, you’ll have to go to this one for sure! Father will not allow otherwise!”

 _Of course he won’t_ , Wyman reflected. _He won’t miss an opportunity to exhibit his long-lost heir like some unique pandyssian artefact, for all the clans to behold. The return of the prodigal son, indeed! And I’ll have to smile and shake hands and stare into the faces of perfect strangers while listening to how we used to play together all the time as children with no recollection of any of them, always wondering if they’re speaking the truth or if they’re just buttering me up for some favour._

Suddenly the boat blew its horn. The strong, ear-piercing whistle reverberated across the water and was met with cheers from the quays. Wyman decided it was better not to put his thoughts into words. Instead, he put a hand on his sister’s shoulder and smiled. “Come, Síneag, it’s time.”

She nodded; he offered her his arm and the two of them left the railing to slowly make their way for the ship’s entrance. “Will you be my partner at the party?” Síne asked eventually. “I think no one here knows the proper steps for the quadrille.”

“The quadrille?” He clicked his tongue. “I think we’re more likely to dance a strathspey and a reel. But sure, I’ll be your partner.” It made his sister beam. Yes, he decided, it would be for the best. Best to have Síne hanging to his arm the whole night and talking his ear off, rather than some drunk highborn lady or lord with wandering hands.

It took a bit longer for the ship to come alongside the pier; once it was done, a ramp was dragged and lifted into position between both. The captain himself eventually showed up, announcing they were clear to disembark. When his eyes met with Síne’s, he flinched but still wished them well.

“I’ll let Her Imperial Majesty know what a diligent man you are, and how well you served us,” Wyman told him as he and Síne stepped on the ramp, and the man’s face took a deep shade of pink. He bowed deeply, pouring out endless thanks that followed them all the way down. However his words were quickly drowned as a roar of excited voices greeted them when they stepped on the quay. Wyman blinked. Two cordons of guards made a clear path to a horse-drawn coach, and a crowd of onlookers had actually gathered behind the men in arms. They were now pointing at both him and Síne with wide eyes, and smiles just as large. Others were gasping, or even crying.

“What was that, that you said earlier?” Síne whispered in his ear with a smug tone. She waved at the crowd and the cheering intensified.

“Fine, fine, maybe there is more than one or two people in Morley who actually like you,” Wyman snorted. He smiled and waved at the people too, and the voices grew even louder. _I wonder how many of them actually know who I am however, or if it’s just the tartan they’re recognizing._ He nodded toward the coach as they walked on. “I guess this is our ride.”

Síne imperceptibly wrinkled her nose. “I wonder when Wynnedown will get rail cars. We have whale oil too! And they apparently have them in Karnaca, so why not here too?”

“I guess the city lacks a genius engineer like Anton Sokolov or, what’s his name? That Serkonan inventor? Something something Jindosh?” Wyman lowered his voice, trying to sound as sanctimonious as possible: “Besides, Morley does not need more southern luxuries, for they only lead to Restless Hands.”

“Getting ready to meet with the Vice-Overseer, I see,” his sister chortled, and he winked.

“I’m half-expecting to get an earbashing about my so-called Wanton Flesh, so you can’t blame me for trying to earn points with the man another way.”

“Oh, I don’t know if Father would actually allow him to do that. Scolding you, I mean. The two of them—“ The door of the coach opened, a tall man in uniform stepped out and Síne’s sentence was left hanging in the cold, morleyan air. “Oh! It’s Finnegan!”

Wyman smiled. He remembered Finnegan well: a gentle soul as tall as a tree, with strong hands and more hair than a bear. He had served the royal family for as long as the young noble could remember, and he was the one who had brought Wyman to the docks fifteen years ago, the day he had boarded for Gristol. So in a way, it was fitting for the man to be the one greeting the siblings upon their return. The passing years had thinned and silvered his locks and bent his massive form, but he seemed as brisk as ever; his eyes fell of the two of them approaching and grew wistful and teary. But rather than walking to Wyman and Síne and welcoming them, Finnegan turned his back to them, facing the coach instead.

“What does he think he’s doing?” Sine groused but she went quiet as Finnegan extended formally a hand and another one, much smaller, set down on his and its owner stepped out of the vehicle. The cheering exploded. His sister let out a quiet squeal. And Wyman—

Wyman wanted to cry and laugh at the same time. He wanted to run forward, to take the figure in his arms. He felt like a child again. But years of formal education and manners under the guidance of his many preceptors kicked in and his face hardly showed any emotions as he kept walking without any hassle. Only when there were a few steps left between them and Síne let go of his arm to properly curtsy did he bow perfectly in front of Anwen merch Dafydd, Queen of Morley. _Mother_.

For all the tricks his memory had played on him so far, she was as he remembered her. Sure, the fifteen last years had left their mark on her face, and there were a few wrinkles at the corner of her eyes and lips, but she was still beautiful. The regal trouser suit she was wearing was blue and green and brought out her shape, with her pale blonde hair tucked into an elegant bun, her porcelain pale skin and clear, light blue eyes – so much like her children’s. Hers watered as her gaze went from her son to her daughter.

“We’re back, Mother!” Síne cooed.

“Yes,” the Queen finally said. Her voice was choked with emotion. “Welcome back. Welcome home.”

“We expected you a bit sooner, but good ol’ ocean decided otherwise!” Finnegan commented after he bowed. His eyes examined Wyman up and down and he chuckled. “In the years since last we met, you’ve actually grown up, young master.”

“Aye, fifteen years tend to do that to a little boy,” Wyman countered with a grin.

“A wee lad you were for sure! Clung to me ‘til the last moment and bawled your eyes out, you did. And now look at you! His Majesty will be proud, that’s for sure!”

“Alas, it will have to wait until tonight,” Anwen stated with a sad smile, “for my husband is currently meeting with his advisors. I had hoped he would find the time be by my side to greet the two of you, but...”

“It’s alright, Mother,” Wyman hastily asserted. Truth be told, he felt relieved: he intended to face the king on his own time and terms, so having His Majesty waiting for him just as he disembarked would have been a very unpleasant surprise.

“Yes, we’ll see him later! But for now, can we just climb in that coach?” Síne eventually asked. “The trip has been long and trying, I’m exhausted and I want nothing but to take a nice, hot bath!”

“Maybe it would be for the best,” Finnegan agreed. “I will stay behind to organize the transfer of your luggage from the boat to the Caisleán Bán. You Majesty, young master, young mistress, I will see you later.” He bowed a last time and headed toward the ship. Anwen watched him go then smiled at her children.

“Let’s go home.”

Despite all her claims of being tired, though, Síne definitely had enough energy left to talk; she jabbered on all the time it took for the coach to reach the Caisleán Bán, describing what her life in Dunwall had been during the last year with a generous amount of details. She also described the people she had met there and Wyman, as he listened to her gushing about Jameson Curnow’s long bangs and just how generally _handsome_ he was, decided he would have a talk with his friend upon his return to Dunwall. Not that he minded his sister’s obvious infatuation with the young Curnow –Jameson was a gallant man – but it was his role and his privilege as the first-born to be somewhat overprotective.

Anwen also listened to Síne’s tale with great interest and a gentle smile. She could have interrupted her, requested for Wyman to tell his own experience, but their eyes had met briefly while Síne was catching her breath and they had both nodded without a word in a promise that they would talk later, just the two of them. For now, it was his sister’s moment; his would come later, and he had fifteen years worth of tales to go through.

After what seemed to be hours, the coach eventually came to a halt, the door opened and the steps were pulled down. Anwen stepped down first, followed by Síne, and then Wyman himself who was joking about actually kidnapping that Jindosh guy and bringing him to Wynnedown to force him to put rail cars everywhere in the city, the Seven Strictures be damned. When he saw the doors of the Caisleán Bán however, his laughter died on his lips, and he didn’t even breathe for a few seconds. _Home._ Those fifteen years of absence hit him even harder than before. Though he also felt a childish pride when, looking up, he realized that the building was at least taller than Dunwall Tower by a storey. And it definitely had more towers, too.

“Wyman, stop slacking off!” Síne called with a hint of annoyance in her voice. He would have answered with a gesture unfitting of a noble, but the presence of his mother stopped him in his track. Instead, he just hurried to catch up with them before they went through the door and entered the Great Hall.

Said hall was a long room, arched over, with a giant staircase at the end and paintings on every inch of the walls. The walls themselves were actually painted, breathtaking mural paintings that pictured majestic scenes of hunts of a variety of animals, from the common blood oxen to the exotic and graceful gazelles, but also battles and mystical creatures. Yet they all disappeared beneath the grave expressions, the piercing eyes and the fair hair of the former Kings of Morley.

As a child, Wyman had spent many hours studying all those faces, learning their heroic deeds and infamous failures; one day after all, he would be the one carrying up their legacy. Now, however, as he walked down the hall, the portraits weren’t as fascinating as they used to be; if anything, they looked slightly disapproving and judgemental. Maybe because his ancestors, Wyman thought with a slight grimace, would have rather slain a Gristolan Empress than fall for her. And they had, back during the Morley Insurrection. His scowl deepened when he noticed, at the end of the line, the portrait of His Majesty, Emyr ap Edern, but the sight of a painting of Emily in her imperial outfit on the opposed wall brought happiness back to his heart. His own face was hung just beside hers and it made him chuckle: when he had sent the portrait to the Caisleán Bán, one of the last painted by Sokolov before his retirement, Wyman had joined a letter requesting for it to be hung besides a painting of Emily. He had never expected to be obeyed, yet here it was.

“Mother, will you come with me? There are things I want to talk with you.” His sister’s voice had turned meek and shy – rather unusual for his dear Síneag – and Wyman quickly turned to look at her with an interested smile. When she noticed him, she pulled a face. It only aroused his interest further.

“We have been talking since your arrival, my dear,” Anwen pointed out gently, “and you mentioned wanting a bath earlier. I’ll ask for it to be prepared with those fragrant herbs from Serkonos you love so much. We’ll resume our discussion later, once you’re rested.”

“But we there are things we really need to talk about first,” Síne insisted. “Without him,” she added, pointing fiercely at Wyman.

 _Oh so that’s how it is.._ _._ He had to hold back a burst of laughter, doing his best to look and sound saddened instead. “Your rejection breaks my heart, Síneag.” His smile returned, and he winked at their mother. “But really, it’s fine. I’ve been planning to have a look at my old bedroom anyway; I’ll be there if you need me.”

“Try not to get lost in the corridors, sweet brother,” Síne smirked, and he smirked back.

“And don’t forget to gargle some of your bathwater to wash that sullied mouth of yours, sweet sister.”

She laughed, and he waved at them before heading his own way. For a moment Wyman feared to actually get lost, but he reasoned that making drastic changes in such an old building was impossible unless you built a new wing; it was possible for the decoration of the corridors to have changed, but not the corridors themselves. He had paced them so often as a boy, and so often in his dreams, that he knew them by heart – all he needed was to stop worrying so much. And so he did; his feet carried him to the room that had been his in the days when he lived in the Caisleán Bán.

The sight of the door sent his stomach into nervous knots; Wyman closed his eyes, took a deep breath and pressed a hand against the wood panel. Maybe it was actually locked and he would have to ask for a servant to bring him the key – that would be embarrassing; thankfully, the door opened and disclosed a lavish room, with heavy, colourful tapestries handing from the walls, stained-glass windows and a sculpted fireplace so large and deep Wyman used to use it as a hideout when he was younger. The bed was roomy enough for a princeling with sheets of silk, pillowcases of satin and a canopy of thick, green velvet. On the floor bearskin rugs had been laid out to keep the cold at bay.

Wyman stared in disbelief. His room was just as he remembered it. Actually, it was like nothing had changed since his departure: his tin soldiers – some were mounted, others were on foot, but all were wearing tartans displaying the distinctive patterns of the different clans of Morley – were arrayed on the floor like he had left them fifteen years ago, and his beloved stuffed whale rested on his pillow; he had cried his eyes out when, upon his arrival in Dunwall, he had realized he had left it in Morley. And besides the whale was a drawing. Or at least it looked like a drawing; Wyman walked to the bed and picked up the piece of paper, to look at it from every angle and figure out what it was supposed to depict. By squinting very hard, he finally recognized a little girl with dark hair wielding an axe, ready to strike down a little boy with blond hair. Wyman let out an amused snort. He remembered well the strong views his younger self used to have about the fate that awaited him in Gristol upon his meeting with Emily Kaldwin. And he couldn’t draw for the life of him.

“I’m bringing you back with me,” he finally said. “If only for showing Emily that the long hours she spent trying to teach me how to draw were doomed from the start.”

Putting the drawing back on his bed, Wyman looked around again; he was quite amazed by the museum-like state of the room, and briefly wondered who had kept it like this. Eventually something caught his eyes: carved into the doorframe were the name “Wyman” and a series of notches labelled with numbers. The lowest notch read “3”, the while highest read “21”; between the two of them, someone had carved “1838” besides the notch that read “10”. Wyman frowned. He remembered those notches: that was how his mother showed him the height he had gained each year as a child, and 1838 was the year he had left Morley for Gristol; there should have been no more notches after that one.

But before he could dwell at length on this discovery, gentle knocks resounded on the door. Wyman blinked. His mother was looking at him with a kind, if somewhat tired, smile.

“May I come in?” she asked, and he nodded. They shared a polite, formal hug.

“Please do, Mother! I’m sorry I did not hear you arrive, I was...” He looked back at the doorframe for an instant then shrugged with a sheepish grin. “I was lost in thoughts and memories, I suppose.”

“Pleasant ones, I dare to hope?” the Queen asked.

“Yes. I was actually remembering those notches up the doorframe.”

Anwen gazed at said notches with a melancholic expression. “Oh! It was always such a feat to have you stand still; you kept standing on your tiptoes, despite all my pleas. You wanted to grow up so fast...” She looked at him with wet eyes and a brittle smile. “As you can see, I kept adding notches even after your departure. The woman who tutored you in Dunwall, Callista Curnow, she was kind enough to join your measures in the letters she sent to me. This way, I could picture your growth over the years.”

“Oh? Oh!” Wyman let out a somewhat embarrassed laugh. “So that’s why she kept measuring me! For the longest time I believed she was actually waiting for me to be tall enough to work on a whaler, that one day I would wake up out to sea on the way to Pandyssia. I was actually torn between fear and excitement; now I feel silly.”

“Oh, Wyman...” His mother sighed, but a glimmer of amusement now showed in her eyes. “Miss Curnow only tried to quell the concern and fears of a mother mad with worry. In return, I used to send her your favourite cooking recipes. If I could not be by your side, at least I could make sure you would eat well.”

“And I did, Callista made sure of it. Each time I was feeling down, so lost and lonely away from home, I had some morleyan dish waiting for me as a treat.”

“After her disappearance it was Lord Attano who took it over, sending me your measures. It was so nice of him.”

“Is that so? He never mentioned anything,” Wyman murmured. But he had to admit, the last notch matched his height as an adult; for a moment, he pictured Lord Corvo, a tape measure in his hand and wearing his infamous mask, sneaking inside the Empress’s safe chamber to measure him while Emily and he were asleep, and suddenly Wyman found himself torn between dread and hilarity, pinching his lips between his fingers to hide a smile. Eventually he took a deep breath, and looked back at his mother. “I have to admit though, I’m a bit surprised. Except for the extra notches, nothing in this room has changed at all. Even my toys are where I left them.”

The Queen looked around and she sighed again, a red hue hovering over her cheeks. “It’s because I made a sanctuary of it,” she admitted. “Oh, the Vice-Overseer would be most unpleased if he could hear me now, especially since for a while there were talks about turning your room into an office for him. But then I went to your father, and I swore to him it would only happen on my dead body. It was one of the only things I had left of you...of my little boy: a room, some toys and a few portraits.” Tentatively she raised a hand toward his face and her fingers touched the scar on the right side of his face. It went from his upper lip to his cheekbone. “You know, you never wrote about how you got this. And despite my pleas, neither did Miss Curnow nor Lord Attano. You simply sent that letter one day announcing you had been hurt but you were alive and on the next portrait we got, you had that nasty scar on your face.”

“It’s not that bad,” Wyman protested. “And I’m the only responsible for it. Well, I suppose bad luck may count as well, but it was mostly me. And no one enjoys being forced to explain how they’ve shat their bed.” His mother raised both eyebrows in shock, and he gave her a thin smile. “One day, Emily and I, we had somehow managed to escape from both Lord Corvo’s and Callista’s watch. We were both naive and in our teens, so we did what naive teenagers are expected to do together when they’re left unchecked: we decided to beat the crap out of each other with swords. It wasn’t our first time: Lord Corvo had allowed us to practice together, but always under his supervision, and always with training weapons. Except I didn’t like it: I was a prince of Morley, I claimed, and no prince of Morley had ever fought with a sword with blunt edges. Not when Morley produces the finest steel in all the Isles. In truth, I was just an insufferable prick.” He grimaced at the memory. “Anyway, it took me some times and a lot of teasing but I had eventually managed to convince Emily that we were both old enough to use real weapons and we, ah, borrowed swords from the armoury. Then we began to fight. Everything was going well and we were both really enjoying ourselves – never mind the punishment that laid in waiting – until the moment I lost my balance at the same moment Emily swung. I tried to parry, but Emily, she has always been strong – stronger than I am, in truth, and stronger than everyone I know except for Lord Corvo – and her blade bumped into mine, pushing it back right into my face. It cut through my cheek, leaving me bleeding and writhing in pain on the grass.” Wyman scratched the tip of his nose for an instant. “I’ve only confused memories of what happened next, but Lord Corvo was shouting, Callista was shouting, Emily was shouting and Sokolov announced very calmly that the steel had cut to the bone. So they stitched my face up and covered it with bandages, put me in my bed and made me drink gallons of Sokolov’s Elixir and Piero’s Remedy and I was formally forbidden from using a sword without any supervision until I turned eighteen.”

Anwen was now staring at him with her mouth agape. “Oh, by the Strictures...” she whispered, shaking her head in consternation.

“I warned you it was my fault. That’s what I explained Callista too, once I could move my lips without fearing that the stitches on my face would split open. I was adamant on getting the whole blame and I still remember how relieved, grateful even she looked – and that’s not surprising; thinking back, everyone was afraid it would lead to a new war between Gristol and Morley.”

His mother grimaced. “I think your father would have insisted for you to be returned to our care, yes.”

“And Dunwall would have never allowed it. So it was for the best, really. Besides,” he went on with a happier wink, “I actually like my scar. It gives me a unique style, like I’m some dashing brigand.”

“Is that why you get your ears pierced too?” Anwen asked, and she looked relieved to be able to put the previous topic behind them.

“Why, of course! I’ve seen plenty of sailors wearing earrings in the morleyan pubs of Dunwall, and one day I decided on a whim I wanted earrings of my owns, along with an inking on the side of my neck. You see it, yes? The branch with the elaborate leaves?”

“It’s hard to miss,” his mother pointed out carefully.

“Actually, Gristolan fashion is so obsessed with high collars and scarves that I rarely get to show it there, but it’s fine for me – because even though there are dozens of courtiers rushing to Dunwall Tower every day, I stand out from the crowd, one way or another. And, well, Emily likes them too,”  he added in a softer tone.

 His mother gave him a tender smile. “You really love her, do you?” She suddenly brought her hand to her mouth in an ashamed gesture. “Oh, where are my manners? I mean, would you...would you agree if we talk a bit about you two?”

This time, it was Wyman who raised an eyebrow in shock. “You must be the only person in the whole Empire who asks for permission before discussing our love life!”

Anwen grimaced. “Well, unlike all those persons, I happen to be your mother. And I understand that there are things you would rather keep private, even from me. Especially from me.”

“You are a jewel among gravel,” Wyman concluded, and she beamed. “I do not mind talking with you about Emily, do not worry. And to answer your previous question, I do love her. I’ve been with a few women and men before Emily, but what I felt for them is nothing compared of what I feel for her.”

“I see.” She was smiling again, and this time there was also a glimpse of expectation in her eyes. “So, does it mean that we can expect an heir soon, yes? A child who would bear both the bloods of Gristol and Morley, it would be the best way to definitely put an end to the conflict between our nations, to bring together Dunwall and Wynnedown once and for all.” She briefly looked down at her hands. “This is, anyway, the kind of things I am expected to tell you as the Queen of Morley. But the truth is...I’m longing to become a grandmother. I want to see my children’s children, to hold them in my arms. And Wyman, you are twenty-five, and so is our fair Empress. Jessamine was twenty-two years old when she gave birth to her daughter; it is high time for Emily to have a child.”

Wyman felt his face turning red. He knew this subject was coming up but it was awkward all the same. “You don’t beat about the bush, do you?” he said with an air of humorous reproach. “But I agreed to answer to your questions, so I guess I can only blame myself.” He ran a hand into his hair, shaking his head. “Rest assured that there will be a child. I however cannot say when – Emily insists on using birth-control methods for now.”

“Oh.” The disappointment on the Queen’s face twisted his heart into a knot, but she quickly pushed it aside. “Well, if it’s just a matter of time...”

“I think...” Wyman was now drumming his fingers on his chin. “Well, don’t take my word for it, but I think Emily is waiting for us to get married. There are still people at Court who call her a bastard; Lady Brambly was making some noise on the matter before I left. A child born in wedlock would silence her detractors for good, on that matter at least.” There was another potential reason, that Emily didn’t want a pregnancy to prevent her from running on Dunwall’s rooftops at night, but he decided not to mention it. Except for him and – most likely – Lord Corvo, no one knew of the Empress’ hobby, and maybe it was for the best. He doubted his mother would understand. And she seemed content enough with his actual explanation, though it was still a letdown for her. 

“It makes sense,” she finally said after a moment of silence. “And our family is old, older than the Kaldwins or even the Empire; the lineage of the Kings of Morley is said to date back to the Great Burning, your name would carry a great weight.” She grimaced slightly. “Your father has always been so proud of all of this. Just like he’s always been so proud of serving Morley.”

Wyman nodded, some old memories coming back to him. “He has always told me that I should do the same, one day. That every of my breath, every of my drop of blood were for Morley and its people.”

“Yes, it sounds just like Emyr. Morley takes it all.”

“That’s why I’ve always admired him,” he admitted in a breath. “Because he’s a man of rectitude and conviction who has never wavered on his principles.”

“Yet you’re angry at him for the same reasons, aren’t you?” The Queen was looking at him with a fond, if sad expression. “You’ve been quite vocal in your letters about it.”

“I know it’s stupid,” Wyman muttered, “I just can’t help it. A part of myself still wishes he had actually casted his principles aside the day we got that letter from Dunwall. If only for once, just for once, his love for his family – for _me_ – had been stronger than his love for Morley...” He scratched his left ear, and then let out a disheartened sigh before straightening himself. “And if wishes were horses, then beggars would ride. What’s done is done; I’ll come to terms with it eventually. In one or two more decades, by the sound of it. Not that it will prevent me from speaking on his behalf to the Parliament.”

Momentary confusion washed all over Anwen’s face, and Wyman arched an eyebrow. “Oh!  Yes, you sister mentioned it. And she told me about the little, ah, accident in your cabin. She insisted on how sorry she was.”

“’Little’? Ah, I guess it looks that way when it’s not your work!” he grouched without much conviction. _It’s strange it was Síne who told you about it rather than His Majesty, though._

“Are you nervous?”

He shook his head with a bright smile. “No. I’ve already addressed the Parliament in Dunwall a few times and let me tell you, its members are a hostile lot. They don’t like me at all, whether it’s because I’m from Morley or because of Emily. Believe me, no matter how my speech goes, my fellow countrymen can’t possibility be worse than Ichabod Boyle!”

 “If you say so, dear.” His mother didn’t seem as much confident as he did. If anything, she looked genuinely worried. So he took her hands, gave them a slight squeeze.

“It’s alright, Mother. I can do it, trust me.”

Another brittle smile went to her lips. “...I trust you. It’s just that you’ve grown so much, yet all I see when I’m looking at you is the little boy you used to be and I want to keep you safe at all costs. But...I’ll come to terms with it eventually. For now all I can do about it is making sure you take some rest before dinner. So I’ll go and ask if your room is ready.”

Wyman gave her a surprised frown, nodding at the bed. “Actually, I thought...”

Anwen clicked her tongue. “Dear, I just told you you’ve grown a lot! Your bed hasn’t! The Outsider takes me if I allow you to sleep in a bed too short with your feet hanging over the end.” She pressed a kiss on his cheek and walked outside of the room, a new smile spreading on her face. And with a last, thoughtful look at his old room, Wyman followed her away.


End file.
